


an ever-fixed mark

by Anonymous



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Minor Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:33:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29212722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: According to the maesters, a soulmark only becomes clear once soulmates meet, truly know their match, and recognize the other for their destiny. Until then the mark is malleable, changing, and unpredictable.
Relationships: Podrick Payne/Sansa Stark
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11
Collections: Five Figure Fanwork Exchange 2020





	an ever-fixed mark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thinlizzy2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinlizzy2/gifts).



He never knew the knight’s name—only his sigil, a charging blue boar, the irony impossible even for Podrick to ignore—and he had not seen him since that harrowing, nightmarish evening. The boar knight had come upon the pile of bone and fat scraps that remained of the ham he’d shared with Lorimer and then dragged them before Tywin Lannister, a sharp smile stretching his features as he produced them as thieves. The knight’s smile had only faltered when Lord Tywin had spared Pod from Lorimer’s fate, though the fat old knight’s unheard cries for mercy seemed to amuse him well enough. But he could recall the words the knight had laughed sharply, and the stink of his hot breath against his neck as he’d pushed Pod to the rugs covering the ground in Tywin Lannister’s sprawling red pavilion. He’d heard the words clearly, even over Lorimer’s begging.

“This useless sack of suet in rusty armor has an even more useless squire, somehow. The gods do arrange these things in unexpected ways, I suppose. A fitting match they are; I’m surprised the boy’s not his own soulmate,” he had laughed, cruelty lacing his tone. Lord Tywin’s eyes were cold and distant as he studied Pod’s huddled form on the plush golden carpet. He set down his quill carefully on his camp desk with a small sigh.

“Be silent,” he said sharply, glancing aside, and Lorimer’s blubbering was choked off, only strangled, muffled moans of despair emerging as he slumped against the hold of Tywin’s guards. Pod peered up warily, but flicked his gaze downward again immediately under the weight of Tywin’s piercing stare, hovering at the level of the desktop, covered with maps and letters.

“What is your name, boy?”

“Podrick Payne, my lord.”

“A Payne. You squired for Lorimer, here.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“For how long?”

“Not long, my lord. Since Ser Cedric died. He was my cousin, my lord.” Tywin made a small noise, his studied disinterest suddenly turning sharp. He made a small beckoning gesture with his fingers.

“Yes, yes. Get up.” Podrick scrambled to his feet, still keeping his eyes down, even as Tywin sized him up for a long moment.

“Show me your mark.” Podrick startled, his gaze snapping up, eyes wide. Lord Lannister only repeated the impatient gesture, curling his fingers and then tapping them on the desk sharply.

“I am your liege lord and you are a squire and a thief besides, now is not the time for bashfulness, Podrick Payne,” Tywin snapped. He was a man unaccustomed to waiting, or the need for patience. And he was not wrong, Podrick knew; though most lords refrained from asking it of their knights or respected sworn houses, any high lord had every right to review the mark of those in his service. Interpreting the meaning of marks was a difficult task even for their bearers or trained maesters, and though some people lived their whole lives never finding their soulmate, the sudden appearance of a soul’s match could complicate sworn oaths in a multitude of ways. Fingers trembling, Podrick fumbled his buttons, and pulled his shirt away from his chest to uncover his mark. Tywin eyed the faint, twisted scribble of lines on Pod’s skin with a grimace of distaste.

“Of course you haven’t met them, yet. I don’t have time to wait on a maester to take measurements and make their pronouncements. It looks rather like a tree to my eye, but no matter. It will bear watching, but that’s enough, cover up, boy.” He nodded to one of his guards, and made another one of his small gestures toward Pod before picking up his quill and a scrap of parchment, not sparing them another glance.

“Take him to my brother, and tell him to keep the boy close until we’re back in King’s Landing.” The guardsman had tugged Pod along by his half-opened shirt collar. He’d spared a glance for Lorimer, whose protests had subsided further into watery whimpering, before emerging into the war camp, the torchlight flashing brightly in his eyes. He could only stumble after his captor silently, wondering if Lord Tywin had been right.

He’d never seen the shape of a tree in the rough, sketch-like outline of faint gray marks on his chest, but he felt suddenly sure that it was exactly the shape of his mark. As he curled in the corner of Kevan Lannister’s tent on a rug like a dog that night, he huddled under a horse blanket and imagined his soulmate might live in a deep, distant wood. In his dreams the forest was as far from the plains of the westerlands as he could imagine them, and he smiled in his sleep.

* * *

Sansa tried to focus on the queen’s words, spoken gravely as they were, and with such gentle, false sincerity. But she ached all over, and most especially deeply in the pit of her stomach, the pain so sharp and unexpected that she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t be sick all over Cersei’s elegant gilded desk before the queen was done speaking. But she couldn’t do that. Like Cersei had said, she was a woman now, and even more than before she could not afford to rouse the queen’s ire further.

“You’ll bear little princes and princesses, of course. The greatest honor, for a queen.” The false warmth of the queen’s voice pressed Sansa back into her chair, weighing her down like the heavy heat of King’s Landing. Children. She could now bear Joffrey’s children, and the thought horrified her, leaving her numb and silent.

“But you will love your children. Nature will force the issue, just like with soulmates. It’s best that you love only those you must, my dear. The more people you love, the weaker you are,” Cersei concluded, tilting her head to study Sansa anew.

“But I love Joffrey with all my heart, your grace,” Sansa said weakly. Cersei’s smile curled the corners of her mouth, but never came near her eyes.

“That’s so sweet, dear. Very admirable. And what of your soulmate?” Cersei asked.

“I haven’t yet met my soulmate,” Sansa replied carefully, casting her gaze down at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap. Their conversation was already intimate, considering the report the Hound had made to Cersei that caused her to be summoned to the queen’s chambers. But the new direction the conversation took made her uneasy nonetheless. Cersei made a small noise, more curious than anything, and picked up her wine cup.

“A pity. Or perhaps a blessing in disguise,” Cersei said, taking a long drink from her cup, her eyes closed and her face turned away.

“It doesn’t matter who my soulmate is, your grace. I know that I’m meant for Joffrey.” Cersei set down her cup abruptly.

“Show me, little dove,” Cersei said, gesturing with her fingers to the front of Sansa’s gown.

“Your grace, I-”

“No false modesty, my dear. Or shall I call Grand Maester Pycelle to take exacting measurements and make a formal determination for the crown, or one of the Kingsguard to strip you bare? No, no. We’ll just keep this between us, hmm?” The queen’s eyes glittered, full of implicit threat. Sansa nodded shakily, her hands moving stiffly to the tie of her dress, just above her hip.

“There now,” Cersei said approvingly, resting her hands on her desk and watching Sansa fumble with the careful bow Shae had tied earlier that morning, loosening it slowly. After a few long moments, Sansa finally pulled the front of the dress loose to bear her chest to Cersei’s curious and frank gaze. Her thin, empty smile somehow stretched even wider, but now there was something like actual amusement in her expression.

“You may not have met your match, yet, but there’s no question that your mark is a shield. Those generally become your soulmate’s house sigil. Or a coat of arms, for a landless knight, I suppose. Your mother must have told you as much, yes?” Sansa dipped her trembling chin in a nod, clutching the front of her dress tightly.

“You see, dove, it really is a blessing, not having yet met your soulmate. If you do ever meet your soulmate, soon after you’ll look down one day and see your soulmate’s coat of arms there, branding you as their property until the day one of you dies. Better to wear the king’s cloak about your shoulders than the heraldry of whatever poor hedge knight whose mark you’ll bear stamped on your breast forever more, using the whims of fate to make a claim on your virtue,” Cersei said, rising from her seat and rounding her desk to approach Sansa.

“Let’s get you dressed again,” she continued, gathering the folds of fabric from Sansa’s numb hands and smoothing the front panels of the dress down, back into their proper shape. She gathered the ties in her hands and made a careful bow above Sansa’s hip. As Cersei plucked and smoothed at the fabric further, Sansa drew in a careful breath.

“Was- was King Robert your soulmate, your grace?” Cersei’s hands stilled in their ministrations, her fingertips pressed firmly into Sansa’s side, before skimming up her body to lift Sansa’s chin from its downward tilt.

“We enjoy many privileges, but bear even more burdens than most to keep them. There is no room for a soulmate in the life of a queen. The sooner you realize that, the better off you’ll be, little dove,” Cersei said, finally releasing Sansa and turning away from her with a dismissive wave.

“Return to your rooms with Sandor, and rest. You’ll not have much opportunity for it, soon.”

Sansa spent the next few days huddling in her bed and sipping tea brought to her by a sympathetic Shae. At night she dreamed fitfully of a knight who would come and bear her away from King’s Landing, his strong arms around her holding her close, and the gleaming sigil on his shield a match for the one inked above her breast.

* * *

All Podrick was asked to do in King’s Landing was to attend Tyrion when he dined and when he drank, but to his dismay, he found that he was as good at such service as he was at being a squire to a hedge knight, which was to say, not very. He shuffled his feet, stuttered his words, and spilled the wine whenever Lord Tyrion hosted a guest at his table. He couldn’t help it; they all made him uneasy. Janos Slynt with his sharp smiles and Her Grace the queen with her sharper tongue all made him feel entirely useless.

When Tyrion finally dismissed him with a pointed look from his dinner with Lord Varys, Podrick had set the wine down as quickly as he could and scrambled from the room. He hardly knew the sprawling, maze-like corridors of the palace at all, but he moved quickly, ducking around other servants who cursed him as he scurried past. Finally he found a passage that was dimly lit and quiet, and he stumbled into an alcove behind an empty suit of armor and sat, resting his chin on his knees. Finding his way back to Tyrion’s rooms would be difficult, but that was a problem for later. He’d missed quiet. Even as little more than a servant in his cousin’s household, he’d been able to find moments of quiet for his thoughts. But King’s Landing was never quiet.

As if summoned by his realization, he heard the scrape of a soft shoe on polished tiled floors-a small noise, but loud in the quiet and the dark. Pod went still, holding even his breath. There was another soft noise, and then a heavy, indrawn breath.

“I know you’re there. I saw you.” The voice was thin, hardly louder than the shuffling of feet on stone, but demanding. Pod’s heartbeat quickened, and he carefully pressed off the alcove wall to get his feet beneath him.

“Come out,” the voice continued, a hint of indignation creeping into its tone. “You can’t just...lurk outside my rooms. If you’re here to scare me, it’s not working.” Pod stood, straightening his back to firmness and lifting his chin, before craning his head outside the alcove and around the hulking suit of armor to peer down the hallway.

Her dark dress, an unassuming warm gray, blended nearly perfectly into the shadows, but the girl’s pale, pinched face glowed in the dim light from the torch further down the hall and fixed him with a haughty look. Pod froze, mouth opening and closing again without a sound emerging, and blinked. Confusion rippled over the girl’s face for a moment before it hardened into a frown once more.

“What are you doing back there?” she asked.

“I was only-” Pod began, breaking off to rub at the back of his neck, glancing behind him fretfully. “I was just...looking for something, my lady,” he finished weakly.

“Well, did you find it?” she asked, pressing her hands together at her waist and looking at him expectantly. Pod shook his head.

“No. My lady. I only...” Pod trailed off as the slim girl came closer, her expression softening.

“Can I help? What did you lose?” she asked gently, her gaze briefly dropping to the ground beneath the stand supporting the suit of armor.

“Everything. I don’t know,” he muttered miserably, and the girl visibly startled before her expression turned somehow all too knowing, and Pod slumped back against the wall, deflated.

“Just the quiet, my lady. I’m sorry, I just wanted a bit of quiet,” he apologized. “It’s all so loud, here. The keep. The kitchens. Everywhere there are so many people and they don’t want me around but I’m lucky to be alive, he said, and- and-”

“It doesn’t help, you know,” she said softly, after looking up and down the hallway warily to see that they were alone. “Being alone with your thoughts seems like it might be an escape, but it isn’t. You’ll just see the same awful things again and again. If you’re busy, it’s easier.” He thought of Ser Cedric, breathing his last, wheezing breaths as the blood soaked his purple tabard, and of Lorimer’s pitiful moans and he shuddered. The girl reached out suddenly and wrapped her slim fingers around his hand. Her touch was cool and delicate, and the shock of it banished the memories from his mind in favor of the girl’s wide, intent blue eyes.

“There’s a game I play, sometimes. It might help, if you want to try…” she began hesitantly, trailing off with uncertainty. Podrick could only nod; he wasn’t certain he could move any more than that if he wanted to with her hand wrapped carefully around his own. He felt rooted to the ground, like his feet had sunk into the stones beneath them.

“This armor must have been worn by a valiant knight,” the girl began suddenly, tearing her gaze from his own and, reaching out to touch the enamelled metal plate on the armor stand with the fingertips of her free hand. Her other hand still curled around his own, pressing gently against the rough calluses that dotted his fingers.

“Or a lucky one,” Podrick said finally. “There’s not a mark on this plate. Maybe he was particularly fast, and always ran away from the thick of the battle.” The girl laughed suddenly, her mouth curling into a smile that stuck Pod’s breath in his throat.

“Ser Quentyn the Quick?” she suggested. He could only smile to match her own expression, a dazed sort of wonder rendering him utterly silent, and he nodded, and when she looked back at the armor he found his voice again, wanting only for her eyes to return to his.

“What’s your name? My lady?” he asked quickly. She looked back at him then, hesitant.

“My name is Sansa Stark.” Podrick inhaled sharply and abruptly bowed, tearing his hand from her own in the process. The king’s own betrothed had addressed him, and here he was making eyes at her like a moonstruck calf.

“My lady! I’m so sorry!” he stammered, glancing up at her stricken face, only to shuffle backwards and deepen his bow even further.

“I didn’t know, I should have known, I’m so very sorry-”

“It’s alright. You haven’t done anything wrong,” Sansa said quickly, quiet desperation in her tone. “Please don’t. Don’t be like this. Everyone treats me like I’m something so far away or as something embarrassing. What’s- what’s your name? Are you a squire, or-?”

“I am, my lady. A squire. To Lord Tyrion. My name is Podrick. Podrick Payne.” He’d straightened from his bow warily, his shoulders still instinctively hunched but looking at Sansa with bewildered awe. It allowed him to see the mix of embarrassment and concern for him disappear, like a mask had dropped over her fair features. A mask made of ice, remote and cold.

“Payne. Of course. House Payne. Sworn to House Lannister,” she said slowly, as if reciting something by rote. “Like Ser Illyn Payne.”

“I wouldn’t know, my lady. I’ve never met him,” Pod admitted. “My father, my late father, he was the younger son of a younger son. Ser Illyn is my cousin.” Sansa’s hands gripped one another tightly at her waist once more. Even in the dim light Podrick could see the skin pulled taut and white around her knuckles, she clenched her hands so hard together.

“Ser Illyn is the King’s Justice, of course. He sees that traitors and criminals receive their proper reward. Like my father,” Sansa said tonelessly. A tremor coursed through her limbs, visible even though she was rigid with tension, trying to remain still. Without thinking, Pod reached out to touch her clasped hands, trying to offer her the comfort she had extended him. Sansa inhaled sharply, but did not pull away.

“I’m sorry, my lady. They say Ser Lorimer was a criminal, too. Lord Tywin hanged him for it, but I miss him. Begging your pardon, my lady, of course. He wasn’t my father. Lorimer, that is. My father is gone, too. As- as I said before,” he said, meandering from thought to thought as the words poured out of him without any semblance of sense. The cold mask of Sansa’s face eased, a little, though it was puzzlement that seemed to creep over her features in its place. Still, it was an improvement. He heaved a sigh and shook his head with a groan.

“I just mean to say that I’m sorry, Lady Sansa. For your loss.” She watched him for a long moment, eyes wide with what he feared were unshed tears, before finally, slowly, stepping back. He let her go, not daring to keep hold of her hand, however much he yearned to cling to it for reasons he couldn’t understand.

“Thank you, Podrick. I should let you get back to Lord Tyrion now,” she said quietly, casting her eyes down the hallway, where a servant had paused to glare with a suspicious squint.

“Yes, my lady,” he said, sketching another bow and sidling around her, only finally turning away once he’d walked past the door she’d emerged from.

“Podrick?” He turned after a few steps to see Sansa standing in the doorway, looking back at him with a strange sort of expression.

“I’m sorry for your loss, as well,” she said, and stepped through the doorway, the heavy door thudding closed behind her before he could formulate a reply.

He hadn’t found quiet that night, but what he had come upon was even better.

A few nights later, as he readied himself for sleep, he froze right in the middle of shrugging on a loose shirt and stared down at his own chest. The lines of his mark were still pale and gray, indistinct, but the nearly-shapeless mass that Lord Tywin had named a tree had something floating among its branches, something small, with the suggestion of wings holding it aloft. He spent hours peering down, making himself cross-eyed trying to determine if it was a raven or a songbird or something else entirely, but he fell asleep not long after the candle guttered out, still unsure.

* * *

Sansa woke in the night to the rough, hitching gasps of her husband’s heavy snores. As he had promised, Tyrion had not come to her bed. Across the room he hunched over his desk, face pressed to the glossy wood, the detritus of broken quills and scraps of parchment spilled over its top just beyond the arm he curled protectively around his head. The fire had burned down and the candles had snuffed themselves; little light remained in the room to see by, but the quantities of wine he had consumed seemed to have at least granted him the peace of a deep sleep.

Drawing a robe around her shoulders, Sansa slipped from the bed and found slippers to ward against the chill of the stone after a few fumbling movements of her feet. She ached all over- her head from unshed tears and exhaustion and her body from the long day of draining ceremony and the constant strain of being on her guard, surrounded by strangers. Margaery had consoled her not so long ago, claiming that Tyrion would make a fine husband, but she had never imagined her own wedding day to be so joyless and empty. The only comfort she could cling to was the knowledge that Tyrion was the least terrible of the options available to her, and that realization still left her wed to a man whose family had been the ruin of her own.

Still, Sansa hesitated as she edged past his sleeping form. There was something pitiful to her about him in that moment, and though she could still conjure anger in her heart with hardly any effort, it felt empty and pointless. Joffrey was in some ways as cruel to Tyrion as he had ever been to her; more, in others. She turned back to the bed to pull free one of the many blankets that topped it. Carefully, she draped it over Tyrion’s body, her hands hovering above his shoulder for a moment, perfectly still as she held her breath, willing him to remain asleep. After a few long moments, she slipped out the bedroom to the living space of their quarters.

There she found Podrick Payne, dozing beside the low-burning fireplace with his head propped on his knees, wrapped in his red cloak. Sansa inhaled sharply, the noise loud in the quiet of the room, but the boy barely stirred, only huffing out a breath and twitching in his sleep. She crossed the room carefully, picking her way around furniture to the fireside, looking down at her husband’s squire warily.

Tyrion spoke well of Podrick, and with more warmth in his tone than he seemed to reserve for anyone else, including--or perhaps especially--his own family. He’d been silent and wide-eyed, blushing furiously, when Tyrion had introduced him to Sansa, his already often-awkward demeanor particularly pronounced in her presence. In their infrequent interactions since that chance meeting in the hallways outside her old rooms months ago, she had seen Podrick little, yet each time he always seemed more embarrassed or awkward than the time before. It was as if their conversation that night had overwhelmed him so much that he could hardly bear to look at her.

Sansa found it entirely perplexing. She could conceive of no reason why their conversation had struck the boy so seriously that he would remain silent and strained every time he so much as saw her. Perhaps, she guessed, he had become defensive of his master, Tyrion. Certainly he had been loyal during the Battle of the Blackwater, as Tyrion frequently mentioned, hardly leaving his side and helping him prepare for the battle. Every time Stannis’s resounding defeat was a topic of conversation the two of them seemed to share expressions of understanding so intent that it unnerved Sansa.

It was hard to imagine the boy curled up here by the fire in war. But then, it was hard to imagine her new husband battling at the gates to the city, either, and he had. They both had. For all that Podrick seemed a boy yet to her, they were of an age. Robb had hardly been much older when he’d first gone to war as a king. Cersei often boasted of how young her brother had won his spurs during the offensive against the Kingswood Brotherhood at only 15. And here she was, herself a married woman. She was not a child any longer, and certainly neither was he.

Sansa crouched down next to the fire and reached out to shake Podrick’s shoulder gently. He startled awake, so shocked that he nearly toppled into the fire’s grate before Sansa caught hold of his cloak and pulled, sending them both to the floor in an awkward sprawl.

“My lady, I’m so sorry,” he groaned, scrambling to his knees and offering her his hand. From flat on her back, Sansa looked up at him and frowned.

“It’s fine. I woke you up, after all. But what are you doing here, Podrick? Didn’t Tyrion dismiss you for the night?” Gingerly, Sansa accepted his hand, and allowed him to assist her to her feet. Standing they were of a height, but he was able to pull her up with ease. Sansa brushed off her dress and rearranged her robe to fall in front of her shoulders and cover her fully before carefully taking a seat in a chair set next to the fire. Podrick stood awkwardly, glancing toward the bedroom before looking back to Sansa.

“My lord Tyrion did dismiss me,” he admitted.

“Then why-?”

“Your lady maid, Sh-shae. She told me to stay. That my lord might need something in the night, or that if you needed _her_ , I could fetch her straight away. I asked if she would stay, too, but she looked at me like I was an idiot for even asking,” he said sheepishly, then suddenly turned very sober and intent.

“Do you need me to fetch her, my lady? I can go-” Sansa cut him off by shaking her head firmly and raising her hand, palm out.

“No, Podrick. But thank you. That was...kind of her. And of you.” Sansa tilted her head against the back of the chair, glancing away to look into the fire before returning her gaze to his own. She frowned as he stood awkwardly, his hands folded in front of him, as if he waited on her command.

“You can sit in one of the chairs, you know. You don’t have to stay standing, or on the floor.” When he hesitated, she shrugged.

“Suit yourself, then.” Stiffly, and with great trepidation, Podrick settled himself on the chair across from Sansa. He sat back carefully, his back straight and resting his arms first on his legs, then, after a moment’s hesitation, carefully placing each, one at a time, on the arm rests. He wiggled his fingers a little over the carved wood shaped like a lion's paws beneath his own hands.

“Thank you,” he said, and Sansa nodded. They sat in silence for a few moments, only the muted pops and crackles from the fire breaking the dark and quiet stillness.

“You looked very beautiful today, my lady.” Podrick’s voice was quiet, but entirely earnest. Sansa pulled her robe around her more tightly, and willed herself not to cry. She was so tired. Though she thought fleetingly of sending him away so that she could fall apart with no one to witness her sorrow, something held her back. She drew a deep breath, and slowly let it escape through parted lips, not daring to look away from the fire.

“The dress that the queen had made for me was very elegant. I am so very grateful for all her grace and my new husband have done for me,” she said, her voice cracking at the last. She pressed her hand to her mouth and coughed lightly to cover her lapse. “Excuse me.” There was movement, then, out of the corner of her eye, but she didn’t, couldn’t look. Soft noises, and the scuff of boots against stone, and suddenly Podrick was at her elbow, a golden cup in his hand and a furrow creasing his brow. Sansa’s head spun at the thought of drinking any more wine, and she began to wave him away. But the scent that wafted off the cup with a curling tendril of steam was so familiar her hands were reaching for it before she could even identify it. Tentative, she brought the cup to her lips, and the rich taste of cider, spiced with cinnamon, bloomed across her tongue. It reminded her of home, and warmed her to her core. Despite the warmth of the night and the heat of the nearby fire, something stiff and frozen eased in her at the feeling of the drink warming her belly. Podrick stepped back and went to one knee to tend the fire, poking at it with a frown of concentration to try to rouse a little more light and flame, before speaking up once more.

“The dress was nice. But _you_ were beautiful, is what I meant. Even from as far away as I was in the sept, with you all the way up on those steps, I could see it.” He cocked his head to the side, looking up at her from where he knelt on the hearth.

“It’s not too hot, is it?” he asked, concern writ large on his face.

“It’s perfect,” Sansa said firmly. “Thank you.”

It was days later, late in the evening, as Shae gently but firmly wrapped her in a robe for sleep that Sansa caught a glimpse of her soulmark in the polished plate hung on the wall and stifled a gasp. Shae paused at the sound, pulling her hands away from the folds of fabric.

“Are you alright? Did I hurt you?” she asked, her brow furrowing as she gently pulled Sansa’s unbound hair back, concerned that she had caught some of the fine strands. Sansa hastily pulled over the front wrap of the robe to cover the mark on her chest and the tall, vertical shape forming on the shield’s face - a blade point down, or a lance, or a tree, perhaps - and shook her head at Shae’s question.

“I’m fine.” She’d met her soulmate for certain, now. She’d guessed some months ago as the lines sharpened around the edges of the mark, but there was no mistaking that something was showing on the shield’s face, now. Grimly resolute, she pushed the knowledge from her mind. She knew many sigils of the nobles and knights of King’s Landing, but none that matched the vague lines forming above her heart.

* * *

The road to the Wall felt interminable, but despite everything strange and awkward about their situation, Podrick had not felt so comfortable in a long time. Brienne remained wary but full of renewed purpose, now that she had liberated Sansa and could finally fulfill the vows she had sworn to Catelyn Stark. Sansa herself, though battered by the cold and her eyes shadowed by nightmares the first few days of their journey, began to change before his eyes as they made their way steadily and as swiftly as they dared, given the weather and the state of their mounts, toward the north.

She was different than he remembered, this Sansa. She’d fallen into a bleak sort of quiet for a time when Theon Greyjoy had left them. The shaking, ragged ironborn had whispered a few words to Sansa after hugging her tightly, and then fixed him and Brienne with the only steady gaze he managed during their brief acquaintance, as if trying to see into their very souls. He’d nodded, then, as if to himself, and taken one of the dead Bolton men’s horses, after scavenging a few different corpses for heavier clothes, new boots, and weapons. Sansa had watched him depart, a distant longing in her gaze, and then turned to picking over the dead men with just as much thorough detachment.

Brienne had made an aborted attempt to stop her, encouraging her to sit by the fire, but she’d only shaken her head and bent to her task, roughly stripping each body to the skin and making pragmatic piles of their goods to sort through.

Podrick could not imagine the woman he had known in King’s Landing, however strong and unbent by circumstance, could have wiped her hands clean and used handfuls of snow to scrub the blood from a pink Bolton cloak. She’d smiled at his expression of surprise, pausing to warm her hands against her body. Giving the cloaks a careful examination, she shrugged a shoulder and then glanced his way again.

“They’ll stain for certain, but it won’t show as much when I’m done. Not against this color,” she’d said calmly. “And we might need them for bedding, if nothing else.” She glanced to Brienne, who was tending to the horses, before looking back to Podrick.

“Thank you, for before. I was a child when I last heard my father accept such an oath. And I can’t say that I was very good at paying attention to such things, then.” She pulled her hands from against her body and set back to work scrubbing at the cloak’s stains before shaking the loose snow free and examining it with a critical eye.

“What would you have been imagining instead?” he said quietly, after sparing Brienne his own sideways glance.Sansa’s smile turned wry and a little sad.

“Imagining a shining southron knight instead of a scowling Karstark or Mormont warrior woman draped in bearskins bending the knee, I expect. The songs, you see, were always about fine knights in their fine armors and silks, not the North. It’s not our way. And I didn’t like our tales so much as the fine and shining songs about the knights paying court to their ladies. Our songs, in the North, tend to end like this,” she said, waving a hand at their surroundings and peering up at the trees above.

“Like what?”

“Winter comes. And then there’s blood in the snow.” She hung the sodden but cleaner cloak from a nearby tree branch with a small noise of approval before returning to the dead man, rifling through his belt pouch and sorting coins from food from trinkets from parchment. A small flayed man sigil was pitched into a nearby pile of snow with a grimace.

“The North does seem to have particularly...gruesome songs. Even the heroic ones. Not that I know so many,” he said, slipping a few more twigs into the fire before standing and joining her at the dead man’s side and working the gloves off his hands. They were tacky with blood--he’d reached for his own throat when it was slashed--but they seemed heavier than his own. If nothing else, a spare set would be useful against the wet, with snow seeming to fall more often, now, than in the past weeks they’d spent watching and waiting outside Winterfell.

“That’s because a good song in the North is about surviving winter. Not conquering our enemies, not really. It’s usually about surviving them. Or not, depending on the tale-teller’s mood. In Winterfell, during the winter, my father would often have a singer from the south stay on. I’m sure he’d pay them, but mostly, I think, they’d stay for a warm place to sleep and plenty of food to eat. It’s how I learned all the songs _I_ know. Nothing that’s been popular for years, of course. Any good singers would have spent their winters someplace far more comfortable, given the opportunity. Warmer, at least. But aside from the singers from the Reach or the Vale or wherever they were from that winter, the soldiers and servants of Winterfell knew the songs of the north, and they’d sing them as well. And however much I didn’t want to hear them, then, I know them now. I’m glad,” she concluded, examining a small dagger from the dead man’s belt with a critical frown. She slipped the blade into her own belt before sitting back on her heels.

“We’ll be weeks traveling to the Wall,” Sansa added after a moment’s pause. “I could teach you some of our songs, if you wanted.” A small note of uncertainty had finally slipped into her voice at that. After everything else, the offer of a song made her wary.

“I’d like that,” Podrick said firmly. “If you want to.”

* * *

Spring came to the North, first heard in the muted dripping of ice melt through stone and then in the rich scent of wet earth as snows receded, bearing dark, damp soil to the chill air. Next it was seen in the cold, distant sun slowing its arc across the sky to linger a little longer each day, and the hints of warmth it provided when it would appear from behind the clouds between bouts of misty, cool rain that turned the trickle of ice melt into a rush and then torrents that carved their way through stream beds criss-crossing the nearby wood. When the Spring arrived officially on a scrap of parchment—carried by raven’s wings all the way from the Citadel and pressed into Sansa’s hands by Winterfell’s maester early one morning as she sat in her solar—she spared it only a passing glance in acknowledgement of the heavy, formal seal still clinging to its edge. It said nothing she didn’t already know.

Her breakfast oatcakes had been cooked with young green ferns, and next to them on the plate a few tough slices of dried sausage had been coaxed into new flavor by the addition of slivers of fresh fennel. Spring had come to the North already, the evidence blooming on her tongue in quick bites between sips of sharp mint tea, the leaves picked only that morning by an enterprising young girl from the winter town outside the keep walls. The maesters and their birds were only formalizing what everyone in Winterfell already knew, and their words gave Sansa no easier method of determining how to accomplish everything that needed to be done. Still, the curling scrap of parchment had attracted curious glances from her companions, so she held out the missive across her desk between them both, wondering which of them would take it first.

“My house’s words are true once more. Winter is only _coming_ ; it is no longer here, says the Citadel,” Sansa said lightly. Brienne retrieved the piece of parchment carefully and unfurled it gently, studying it with more intent than Sansa had spared with furrows in her brow. Podrick edged forward in his seat, trying not to look as if he was reading over Brienne’s shoulder, but his eyebrows crept up as he peered intently at the parchment. Sansa smothered a smile behind her hand.

“You have the distinct advantage of those words being true nearly always, and then there’s the satisfaction having said so, even when it’s winter again and they’re not,” Brienne observed, a faint smile easing the tension in her face. Sansa felt her own expression warm a little in response to the gentle teasing. It was rare that Brienne ventured anything like a humorous aside. It wasn’t that she was always particularly serious or formal—too much had passed between them for that—but there was often a certain restraint about Brienne, paired with a single-mindedness that didn’t always lend itself easily to conversation that wasn’t entirely to the point.

“I’m quite sure that was a consideration of whatever distant forebear of mine came up with the words. There’s no way to turn them back around and make mock of us with them, no chance for pointed and uncomfortable irony,” Sansa agreed, reaching for her tea cup and settling back in her chair. The hot springs below Winterfell kept her rooms well-heated, but the steadying warmth of the cup was soothing nonetheless.

It also provided excellent cover for her amusement as Podrick continued to crane his neck, lips slightly parted as he read the parchment, an eyebrow quirking down again in surprised reaction to the formal, flowery language of the Citadel. Brienne glanced sharply sideways, as if suddenly aware of Podrick’s hovering presence, but by the time her head turned, he was looking away. When Sansa’s eyes caught his own, he had the temerity to look a little sheepish, a sudden flush coloring his cheeks.

“I can’t imagine anyone daring to mock House Stark,” Podrick said indignantly, surreptitiously edging away from Brienne by leaning to the far side of his chair.

“But as a warning, our words might mean something different, now. This winter only lasted a few months, not a year. In any other spring the winter town would be emptying out already, and people returning to their lands,” Sansa said. Brienne’s expression turned thoughtful.

“I’ve seen some loaded carts leaving, in the last few days.”

“A few,” Sansa agreed. “Those who have the hardest time staying in town and who prize their independence the most. But there’s fewer cattle, goats, and pigs than usual. Fewer horses suited to a plow, too. I’m told that the hunting is good, with fewer people and fewer predators both, but it takes time and skill to hunt that not everyone possesses. And not everyone seems convinced that winter is truly over.” Sansa frowned. The North was not a place for timidity, but she could hardly blame them, given everything that had happened.

“Our stores of preserved food are still plentiful, so I could sell some of Winterfell’s livestock to the farmers—” Brienne grimaced and Podrick looked concerned, but Sansa impatiently waved a hand at them to forestall the inevitable objection and continued on “—I know, I know, we can’t deplete our own herds too much. A few builders and craftsmen have started to respond to the word I’ve put out, and we’ll need to feed them on top of paying them well to rebuild Winterfell to what it was before.” Sansa settled her teacup back on the desk and laced her fingers together.

“The Seven Kingdoms were separate for thousands of years and were each largely self-sufficient. But still, they managed to trade as much as they warred on one another before the Targaryens came. Now we’re separate again, and it’s as if nothing can return to the way it was,” Sansa said. A hint of childish petulance had crept into her tone, and she pressed her lips together in irritation. She could not afford the distraction.

“People are uncertain and afraid. It will take time for that to pass,” Brienne said.

“But we can only wait so long.” Sansa hesitated, but realized she couldn’t put it off any longer. “I’ve written to my cousin Robin to negotiate for a major purchase of grain from the Vale's stores. And to Tyrion Lannister to acquire as many head of cattle from the Westerlands as we can agree upon." Even as Podrick smiled crookedly at Tyrion’s name, a complex ripple of emotion played over Brienne's face. Sansa did her the favor of briefly looking down at her little pile of correspondence, her gaze catching on the small smudge of golden wax that had sealed the reply to her request. By the time she looked back up again, Brienne’s expression was impassive, and Podrick’s smile had thinned and faded as he watched her.

Brienne was strong, Sansa knew well just how much, but the name Lannister was still a wound for her, however much she pretended otherwise.

“It will take time for the grain to arrive, and longer still for the cattle. But we will need the animals to sell and replenish our own herds,” Sansa admitted.

“What’s the payment to be?” Podrick asked, curiosity overcoming his inclination to defer to Brienne’s questions before his own.

“Wood, mostly. There is more needed than the Westerlands has wood to spare, at least along the coast. The boats that will bring cattle to the Fever River to be driven over the Barrows to Winterfell will return with timber from the forests of the Neck. There are substantial repairs to be made at Casterly Rock and in Lannisport, Tyrion wrote.”

“The Vale is not lacking in good timber,” Brienne observed.

“No, though it is difficult to move through the mountains.. From White Harbor, I’m sending House Arryn furs, leather, and wool by way of Gulltown. There’s a lot of each that goes into the lining of the fine armor the Knights of the Vale wear, at least. The Vale itself was untouched by the wars, but her knights were not, and trade has been limited for us all. Winter may be past us now, but it’s cold in the Eyrie nonetheless.” Brienne frowned, her shoulders back and her hands resting lightly on her legs, but a tightness squaring every part of her frame into sharp angles before she spoke, her words weighted with care.

“Tarth imports a great deal in return for the few resources it has in abundance. I am not unfamiliar with this process. Those are generous terms, my lady.”

“Do you think I’ve made a poor bargain?” Sansa asked, letting a hint of coolness slip into her voice.

“The opposite,” Brienne admitted. “I am surprised that Lord Tyrion and Lord Robin are so generous.”

“Tyrion is a good man,” Podrick said stoutly in his defense. His gaze wavered to Sansa with an almost pleading look and then back to Brienne. “He always has been to me.”

“I _know,_ Pod, but he has his own people to think of. And Lord Arryn, too. I am only concerned that there may be more to this bargain than has been said outright.” Brienne looked intently at Sansa, her gaze searching.

“Is there, my lady? Anything else?”

“The terms are clear and agreed upon. There is no future claim or expectation beyond general goodwill,” Sansa replied steadily. She could see that Brienne was not convinced.There was no trust in her for a Lannister any longer. Sansa couldn’t blame her, considering.

“Sansa, I-”

“It is done, Brienne,” Sansa cut her off firmly, but allowed her voice to gentle, a little. “I hear your concerns. I shared them. After everything that’s happened, I will not allow the North to be anything but free. No bowing under debts, whether in gold or honor. I would accept nothing less, and the Kingdom of the Vale and the Kingdom of the Rock agreed. It makes sense. Lannister gold can buy a great deal, but it can’t conjure trees from the ground. And the Vale is protected by the mountains, but also closed off, and not easily able to attract traders from Essos or beyond to their ports.” Sansa placed her hands flat on her desk and rose to her feet smoothly. After only the briefest of hesitation, both Brienne and Pod stood as well.

“I know you have recruits to train this morning,” Sansa said smoothly. “And I need to meet with Maester Wolkan to send ravens to confirm the last details of the exchange.” Brienne inclined her head.

“Yes, my lady. If I-” Brienne paused, then began again. “May I ask, if in your correspondence with Tyrion, has he-” She stopped herself a second time before plowing ahead with a sort of grim determination. “Was there any word of Jaime?” Sansa drew a deep breath, and shook her head slowly.

“No,” she said gently. “Not since just after the Great Council when he rejected any claim he might have to Casterly Rock or leading House Lannister. Tyrion writes that he has had no word from him, or of him, since then.” The council had been months ago, now. Sansa had seen the way Brienne and Jaime had stared at one another across the courtyard during the meeting with naked yearning and such agony that nearly everyone present could hardly stand to look at them. When soulmates who knew one another refused to accept what was between them, even when circumstances prevented them from being able to be together, their tie seemed to take on an almost physical weight. For all her strength, Brienne seemed bowed beneath the burden of it, sometimes. Sansa had seen many soulmates wed to others for alliance or greed or jealousy, after all. It was sometimes a necessity in an un often unkind world. But when they were prevented from coming together by their own refusal to accept the truth of their connection, it was as if the marks were heavy yokes binding them to the ground.

As much as she loved her friend, Sansa sometimes hoped that Jaime’s agony, wherever he might be, was far worse than what Brienne endured. She had seen the dark lines of Brienne’s soulmark against the other woman’s fair skin after Brienne and Pod had rescued her from Ramsey’s men. Even as she had helped Sansa remove every ice-encrusted garment she wore when they made camp that night, rubbing her briskly down with a towel to warm her, Brienne had stripped off her own cold, blood spattered garments. High on her chest were a riot of images curled around a point-down sword--a snarling bear and a roaring lion snapping at one another with licks of fire springing up behind them, casting the sword in sharp relief. It was a dramatic mark, and though she should have averted her gaze from it, she couldn’t help but stare. Brienne had followed her gaze, frowned, and shrugged on a shirt before hustling Sansa into a fresh set of too-large clothes, and wrapped her up in every piece of fabric she could find, including two of the pink cloaks Sans had cleaned of blood and hung to dry hours before.

Sansa hadn’t known, then, what it meant besides that her savior had a soulmate that Brienne had recognized and accepted the truth of their connection. Lions made her uneasy, then as now, but she would never have guessed that Brienne’s soulmate was a Lannister. She wondered, sometimes, how long it had taken Jaime to realize--and then reject--the truth of his own mark.

Her own had changed enough over the years for her to be sure that she had met her soulmate, but remained stubbornly indistinct. Sometimes she thought the lines bisecting the shield’s face were a sword, but it might well have been the memory of Brienne’s mark that suggested it to her. Then again, swords and their symbolism—honor, defense, and chivalry, the maesters said—were not uncommon iconography in soulmarks.

Brienne’s shoulders hunched slightly at the news, but her nod of acceptance was brief.

“Thank you, my lady. As you say, my trainees need me this morning. I’ll see you there later, Podrick, don’t forget,” she said quietly, before turning and striding out of the room, leaving Sansa and Podrick in silence.

“If you’ll excuse me-” Pod began, starting to bow.

“Oh, stop,” Sansa sighed.

“My lady?” He sounded puzzled, but straightened.

“Walk with me, please, Podrick?” Sansa swept out from behind her desk, gesturing with a curl of her fingers for him to follow her.

“Of course, Lady Sansa,” he agreed, walking by her side but just a little behind, once they were in the hallway.

“I worry for Brienne,” she began without further preamble. Podrick had come too far from the scared little boy she’d once comforted in King’s Landing to stumble or startle with surprise, but she could see out of the corner of her eye that he had certainly not expected her to say that, and he eyed her warily. He frowned, keeping pace with Sansa for a few more steps before venturing a reply.

“Ser Brienne is very strong. But I worry about her, too.”

“I will spare you my thoughts about Jaime Lannister right now,” Sansa continued. Podrick’s grimace suggested that he was more than sympathetic to any criticism Sansa might levy in the man’s direction, but he nodded his understanding.

“But I don’t know how to help her. Do you think she wants to return home to her father? She speaks of him, sometimes. I worry that I’ve kept her here too long, though she’s refused my offers to visit him.” Podrick shook his head.

“You do help her. You’ve given her responsibilities, and your trust,” Podrick said firmly. “Besides Renly Baratheon, and then him, no one else ever has. Renly’s dead, and Jaime’s a coward, but you’ve trusted her and relied upon her and treated her like a knight, always. From the beginning, in fact.” Sansa smiled a little at that.

“Only with your help. I’d forgotten the words,” she said softly, shaking her head. “It feels like that was a long time ago, only it wasn’t.”

“Not so long,” he agreed. “But everything is different, now.” Sansa stopped in the hallway just before the stairs up to the maester’s rookery, fixing Podrick with a searching look.

“I think the best gift Jaime Lannister gave Brienne wasn’t her sword or armor, but making her a knight. But the best thing you’ve done for her is let her be one, and dared anyone to question it or offer any mockery,” he said with sudden intensity.

“Who would dare?” Sansa said lightly, humor coloring her voice. “As you’ve said, no one mocks House Stark or any who’ve sworn an oath.”

“No, my lady,” he agreed. “I know. I’m very grateful to Ser Brienne for training and knighting me, but I didn’t stay because she asked. She never did, you know.” Sansa blinked in surprise.

“It’s not that she wanted me to leave. But she did say I might go home; she does miss Tarth something terrible. But she didn’t realize that this is more my home than any other place I’ve been.”

“I’m glad to have you in my service, Podrick,” Sansa said.

“The honor has been mine,” he replied, beginning to bow, before she reached out and stopped him with a hand on his wrist.

“Don’t,” she said gently. “Do you remember, back in King’s Landing? I wished you wouldn’t, because it pulled you away from me.” The breath stilled in his throat, just as it had then.

“I remember,” he said, unable to manage anything more.

“You were the first person in King’s Landing to be sorry for me, and mean it, I think. Thank you, Podrick.” Her fingers tightened on his wrist, and he was struck suddenly by the image of her, tall and beautiful, bright white skin and russet hair against the dark gray stone of Wintefell’s walls.

Like the embroidered silver direwolf leaping across her dress, bright red leaves arrayed against a dark night surrounding its running form.

Like the tree on the skin of his chest, delicate lines forming leaves starting to turn the red of blood, against a silver-gray sky.

His breath caught fully in his chest as she met his gaze, her lips slightly parted, before her eyes seemed to widen with uncertainty.

“Can I-”

“Yes,” he breathed out in a rush. He hadn’t the faintest idea of what she was asking of him, but whatever it was, he had no intention of denying her whatever she might demand. She hesitated only a moment before pulling him into an embrace. Podrick distantly, dreamily took account of every feeling that he could - the tickle of her hair against his cheek and ear, the strong press of her arms winding around his ribs, and the relieved, contented exhalation of her breath against his shoulder, warming his neck. He could do nothing except hold her, however much some fretful corner of his mind staggered at the realization that he held his soulmate in his arms, and that he could never hope to do more than to serve her.

When she gently pulled back from the embrace, beginning to turn to climb the stairs to the maester’s rookery, he forced himself to match her smile and watch her go, just as he had so many times before.

* * *

From the walls of Winterfell, Podrick looked down over the milling herd of shaggy brown cattle stamping and indignantly lowing their dismay to the handful of mounted men who kept them bunched together. It felt as though it had been only days before when the ground beneath their hooves had been trampled into dust by thousands of soldiers defending Winterfell against the dead; now grass sprung up, patchy and tenacious, for the cattle to graze. All the same, he felt that night had been a lifetime ago. Brienne stood at his elbow, watching the goings-on below with a critical expression, as the head herdsman engaged in animated, if cheerful, conversation with the castle steward. The rest of the herdsmen, lightly cloaked against the dust of the trampling cattle, watched the exchange from horseback, occasionally lifting their curious gazes to the walls and Brienne’s tall form in particular.

“These cows look skinny,” Brienne said gruffly, long used to curious stares and ignoring the men in favor of their charges. “I’m not sure they were such a good deal after all.”

“They’ve been driven down the road for ages to get here,” he pointed out. “Remember how we were by the time we reached The Wall?” He quirked an eyebrow and patted his own belly.

“ _I_ do,” Sansa said as she joined them, appearing from the tower stairway and peering over the edge of the wall. “We had plenty of rations, but the soup I had at Castle Black was the most delicious thing I’d ever tasted, I think. And it was just boiled pease and slivers of ham so thin I might have imagined them,” she said with a chuckle. The hair at the back of Podrick’s neck prickled and he found himself smiling widely at the sound of her laughter. This, at least, he could have from his soulmate; sharing her joys, however great or small.

“It was a long way to travel. The grain will get them back to a good weight in a fortnight or so. Some will be sold, others I’ll pay men to graze and manage so we can outfit as many farmers wanting to tend the available land as we can.” Unspoken was the truth they all three knew; there was far more land than smallfolk to tend them, after the wars against the living and the dead.

“It was a wise decision,” Brienne admitted. “I am sorry to have questioned you.”

“You speak truths as you’ve seen them,” Sansa replied firmly, lifting her gaze from her careful study of the cows below to meet Brienne’s gaze frankly. “I trust you for that, always. Even when I don’t agree.” She hesitated, glancing down at the cattle again, before turning back to Brienne.

“I’ve asked for additional payment to be distributed among the herdsmen. Gratitude for coming all this way, over water and on long roads, with their charges. Would you go down and see that it’s done properly?” she asked. Brienne only hesitated a moment before nodding gravely.

“Of course, my lady.” Sansa watched her depart before stepping to the wall’s edge and peering down intently. Podrick studied her with no small amount of growing alarm.

“Is...is something wrong? Why does she need to be down there for this?” he asked. Sansa glanced at him, appearing almost stricken, suddenly, and his worry grew.

“She doesn’t!” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “But I don’t know. I’m not certain, but I think...I think she’ll want to do this on her own.”

“Do what?” he replied, his voice pitched just as low, though he was totally and utterly confused.

“Wait, just wait,” she murmured. “If I’m right…” He followed her gaze to the ground below, where Brienne emerged from the postern gate. Sansa tapped her finger on the stone of the crenellation just before her.

“The herdsman on the chestnut mare,” Sansa suddenly said cryptically. Podrick looked away from the bags of coin the steward was handing over to the men ranged out among the cows, working their way on their horses through the milling cattle toward their rewards. He picked out the chestnut mare among their mounts, and studied the man carefully. Unlike the others, he hung back from the promise of coin. But he was draped in a dusty cloak the same as the rest, and his horse no better or worse than-

His gloved right hand rested on his hip, not with an easy, casual drape, but stiffly angled and entirely unmoving. Podrick’s eyes widened in realization, and then narrowed in fury.

“I’m going to kill him,” Podrick growled, fumbling for the entirely absent sword at his hip before Sansa reached out and grabbed his arm tightly.

“She is more than capable of doing that herself if she likes,” Sansa hissed back sharply.

“Faster. Better. Far more efficiently than me,” he agreed. Sansa laughed again, the soft sound easing some of the surge of anger that had bloomed in his chest upon identifying Jaime Lannister below.

“He better have come to apologize,” Podrick said after a moment. There was bitterness there, however much he tried to keep his voice free of it. Despite everything, nothing prevented Jaime Lannister from being a partner to Brienne but his own damned foolish choices. They would be the stuff of songs regardless, heroes of the wars, but as soulmates they could be a story fit for the ages.

Podrick was a landless knight of a house of little wealth and less renown. He could never hope to be permitted to be a companion to a queen, and so the truth of his soulmate’s mark was more curse than blessing. Even so, as Jaime slipped from his horse, dropped to one knee, and pulled back his hood below, the wash of emotions passing over Brienne’s face drained the anger from him entirely. He could not be jealous, not of them.

Sansa squeezed his arm gently--she’d not let go--as Brienne offered Jaime a hand up and pulled him to his feet. They did not embrace, or kiss, or anything of the sort, but they spoke to one another quietly, intently, and Podrick thought it likely they’d have their chance to be the stuff of songs.

“And what of us?” Podrick tore his gaze away from the scene below to stare at Sansa in naked shock. She still hadn’t let go of his arm, and her gaze was somehow both expectant and a little afraid.

He had seen Sansa Stark afraid so few times that the sight of it nearly sent him staggering to his own knees.

“My lady,” he began. No, it wouldn’t do. “ _Sansa_ ,” he said, the weight of her name on his tongue grounding him and strengthening the quiver in his legs, however inappropriate it might be. She turned to face him fully, clasping her free hand around his other forearm, holding him in place and studying his expression for a long moment.

“How long have you known?” she asked finally.

“For certain, not long,” he admitted. “I’d hoped- wished for longer. Even knowing that I can’t be what you ought to have, I’m still your knight, if you’ll have me.” He didn’t think she would send him away, but he would have understood if she did, for her own sake. Something moved in her expression, as if she came to some conclusion based only on those few words.

“You _are_ my knight, Podrick Payne,” Sansa said firmly. Her grip eased from his forearms to grasp his own hands in her own. “And I would have you. If you will have me.” The certainty in her voice strengthened him, and it was with purpose, not weakness, that he began to go down on one knee, pressing his face against her hand, before she hauled him back bodily to his feet, wiry strength in her tall frame

“I think you can do better than that. I’ve imagined as much, so many times,” Sansa said with a hint of a smile, stepping into his arms.

“Much better,” he confirmed, pressing his lips to hers readily, ready to show her every way he could.


End file.
